


how you say, fraternité

by multicorn



Series: we are shaped like stars [5]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Politics, Revolutionaries, language lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multicorn/pseuds/multicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 'Hamilton tries to teach Washington French fic' that @herowndeliverance prompted me for, lo these many months ago.</p><p> <i>The first argument in favor of the General’s learning French, Alex thinks, is that as matters stand his rare attempts at the language must undoubtedly offend the ears of anyone who knows it.  The fate of the fledgling American enterprise hangs by the thread of the chance that no foreign officer has yet challenged the General to an affair of honor for accidentally casting doubt on his ancestry, or on the honor of his wife.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	how you say, fraternité

**Author's Note:**

> This and all of my Hamilton fic treats both the musical and history as sources, drawing on them for things I can use. Historical inaccuracy, especially, is likely to occur, both in its intentional and unintentional varieties.
> 
> This fic 'verse updates every Tuesday and Thursday. Many (many) relationships will be featured, both platonic and romantic and/or sexual.

The morning workroom is cold and gray. There’s an anemic fire at the far end, but whatever heat it gives off utterly fails to penetrate the chill. Alex rubs his chapped fingers together, trying in vain to work warmth into them, but no matter how hard he tries it’s no fit substitute.

The first argument in favor of the General’s learning French, he thinks, is that as matters stand his rare attempts at the language must undoubtedly offend the ears of anyone who knows it. The fate of the fledgling American enterprise hangs by the thread of the chance that no foreign officer has yet challenged the General to an affair of honor for accidentally casting doubt on his ancestry, or on the honor of his wife.

Alex himself has no claim to speak from a pride of place, yet even so he winces every time the General trips over some trivial French phrase. No one ought to escape unscathed who bastardizes his mother’s tongue so!

He explains all of this to Laurens, covertly whispering in between the reports they write. He expects his friend to understand: privileged with years of schooling in Geneva, and with Huguenot forebears himself.

“So how can we persuade him to learn?” he finishes.

Laurens eyes him sidelong over the messy pile of papers that have accumulated between them. “I think you forget that both of us are only aides-de-camp, and that the General seems to see no problem at all.”

“But there is a problem, is there not?” Alex presses the question, and presses forward in his chair.

“There is,” Laurens agrees, “but it’s not such an important one.” He blows air out of his nose. “Listen to me. Your position here is important. There’s no reason to endanger it by proposing a course of action that needlessly insults the General.”

Alex should be more offended, he thinks, than he is. He’s glad that Laurens cares. However - “The General wouldn’t dismiss me simply for making a suggestion,” he whispers heatedly. He’s more offended, come to think of it, on the General’s behalf than his own. The General has quite a temper, but Alex has seen him endure criticism far more severe without a disproportionate response.

Laurens only shrugs. “If you say so.”

~

Lafayette, Alex is sure, will share his misgivings here. It’s true that from an uncertain start he’s grown in the last few weeks not only to revere the General in a way that borders on idolatry, but also to love him as a mortal man. Even so: French is Lafayette’s native tongue, and though he quarrels incessantly with its government, he loves his country even more fiercely and devotedly than he loves the General.

Alex is shocked when he lays out his argument and is once again rebuffed.

Lafayette laughs heartily at him, and says, “I appreciate that he tries. I dismember your English, myself.”

“Do you mean, misremember?” Alex asks. “As in, forget? Or did you mean - to butcher the language, is how the saying goes.”

“Dismember,” Lafayette says with a grin. “To take apart, limb by limb, with blood.”

“Ah,” Alex says. He sees the gleam in Lafayette’s eyes and thinks better of encouraging it in an argument. “That will serve. Dismember. But - the General dismembers your name!”

Lafayette shrugs. “So? I didn’t name myself. It is too long.”

“Don’t you want to protect the name of your country?” Alex sputters.

“Yes, of course, when there’s some matter of importance at stake. I came to fight by your side, but I will fight the General himself if I must. But, _mon cher, Alexandre_ , this matter of the General’s tongue, it is, how you say, merely an anthill.”

“A molehill,” Alex mutters, sullenly. He can’t see why Lafayette doesn’t understand.

~

The second argument for the General’s needing his French improved is that the three of them - Alex himself, and Laurens and Lafayette - have come to form a small circle of friends. Whether in a too-crowded room or out on the cold parade ground surrounded by a body of troops, they stand together and speak in French, in the language they share.

Lafayette may joke about, for example, the untrained quality of the American soldiers, comparing them to raw dough. Laurens may take offense: our soldiers fight for freedom, and so any one of them must be worth ten who fight without desiring it in the service of a tyrant.

And Alex, listening with one ear, sees the General watching them. He looks oddly alone, a stern black outcropping of rock untouched amid the waves of the company. His eyes linger on the group of friends, then are pulled dutifully back to whichever gentleman or lady accosts him. He responds, always, appropriately, but Alex knows the look of standing longingly outside a window from the inside out.

It is simply not practical - and would by no means be proper - for the General to closet himself with only the junior two out of his four aides, and one Major General without the rest. More men would undoubtedly break in, each wanting a share of the General’s aura, and the small circle would be broken. Only, if the General also spoke French, then there might be some excuse for terms of greater intimacy.

It’s the third argument, though, that Alex thinks is the most important. His name is the Baron Friedrich von Steuben. He’s recently joined the camp, and has only just begun to institute Prussian-style drills for the regiments, but already Alex thinks he can see the good effects of the practice. The men may not march in formation - yet - but camaraderiein the lower ranks, _esprit de corps_ , and similar things, haven’t approached such levels since the very start of the war.

Von Steuben just might be the single most important person yet to the war effort. More than that, though, he’s hilarious.

He speaks barely a word of English. He has quite tolerable French, though, along with his native German, so that Alex and Laurens serve as interpreters for him at first. They are quickly relieved in that office by two French-speaking line officers, the Captains William North and Benjamin Walker, whose offers to translate for the Baron may or may not have been motivated by the remarkable rapport they soon display with him. The mutual attachment between the Baron and the mass of men, especially, is nothing short of incredible, mediated as it must always be by translators. But between the Baron and the General, still, some third person to facilitate understanding is needed.

Alex stands between the two of them as they discourse on subjects of no less import than the state of the Army itself. The Baron yells, and waves his arms about, though Alex has never yet seen him angry.

“ _Vos hommes ne connaissent pas leurs têtes de leurs ânes!_ ” the Baron says.

“Our men don’t know their heads from their… feet,” Alex translates. It takes quick work, to navigate between the Scylla of the Baron’s language and the Charybdis of the General’s strictures on such.

“ _Ou leurs ânes de leurs bites,_ ” the Baron adds. Alex stifles a laugh.

“What’s the joke?” the General asks.

Alex shakes his head. “Nothing.” And he wishes, desperately, that the Baron and the General shared a language so that they could speak freely and directly to each other. And so that he wouldn’t be required to be in the room.

Furthermore, Alex thinks, this problem is only going to grow. If America is to win the war, it will need much more help from France. Some foreign officers, like von Stueben, won’t speak English at all. Some others, unlike Lafayette, will still resent no effort being made to meet them halfway. If the General is to be the leader of their new nation, necessity dictates that he should learn at least a little of their closest ally’s language.

~

Alex presents these arguments to Lafayette, pacing back and forth in the latter’s room late at night. Eventually he concludes: that Lafayette would be the ideal person to tutor the General in French. He possesses the full command of the language that only a native speaker can. He is of a high rank himself, and not one solely owing to his place in the General’s command. And the General, furthermore, whatever may be the reason, seems to regard him with a fond indulgence more appropriate for a son than for a subordinate officer.

Lafayette hears Alex out, and when he’s finally done, congratulates him laughingly on the eloquence of his arguments.

“So you’ll do it?” Alex asks, eagerly.

“No, I won’t.” Lafayette grins. It’s a wide grin, a shit-eating grin, and Alex doesn’t trust it at all. “Since you’re so committed to this idea, I think you should do it yourself.”

~

Alex works and reworks the presentation of his arguments in his head. He rehearses them to perfect the affect, and prepares counters for every objection, until he thinks that he’s prepared to persuade the General.

He seizes his moment the next evening, after supper. When he sees that the General’s about to retire, he catches his attention and on a sign follows him into his room. He’s barely started to introduce his thesis, though, when the General interrupts him. Alex’s teeth click together abruptly, barely missing his tongue.

“Nevermind why,” the General says. “The hour’s too late to hear any more speeches. If you wish to teach me French, you can try.”

“Now?” Alex isn’t ready. He’d expected to have to work to convince the General. He hasn’t planned out any lessons yet.

“If you please.” It’s not a question. It’s a command.

So Alex scrambles internally to catch up. The first thing that comes to mind is - “do you know the alphabet?”

A look of distaste ripples across the General’s face. “Anything but that.”

“Sir?” Alex asks. He’s not often at a loss, but, well. There’s the General. Waiting for him, and on an errand of his own devising. He feels unexpectedly out of his depth.

“Give me something of some use - to a field commander, let’s say.”

Alex rifles through possibilities quickly. “Would numbers serve?”

“I think they would.” The General’s habitual impassiveness restored, a task laid out: Alex feels on steady ground again. He holds his hands out in front of him so that his fingers are visible as he counts.

“One is _un_ ,” he says, sticking out his thumb, “ _deux_ is two, _trois_ is three - don’t just listen, repeat after me.”

Washington repeats on his own fingers. “ _Un, deux, trois._ ” His accent is atrocious, though not as poor as Alex has sometimes heard it. Alex repeats the words carefully for him, before they go on to the next set.

“ _Un, deux, trois._ ”

Washington’s a fine student. He repeats the words patiently, without complaint or any efforts to offer some distraction. Alex is distracted, though, when he takes the General’s hand, pulling straight each finger in turn to call forth the next number without a pause. Despite himself, when they're like this, the usual order of precedence inverted, he notices the roughness of calluses under his hands. To think of the General that way, whom he serves and whom he wishes to please - no. It’s completely inappropriate. Such thoughts about his two newest and best friends have been more than bad enough.

Eventually they work their way to _vingt_ , counting up the fingers and then back down, but the General can’t count all the way without making a mistake. He’ll forget _six_ , or _sept_ , or _quinze_ , a different mistake, every time, and he’s becoming visibly more frustrated with each correction that Alex makes. Eventually he huffs out a heavy breath and pulls his hands away. He turns fully around, so that he’s facing his desk, hands on the dark wood, head bowed, and broad back to Alex.

“This is pointless,” he growls. Angry at what, Alex isn’t sure.

“Sir?”

“And I don’t appreciate being made to look like a fool.”

“You didn’t!” Alex says, quickly. That, at least, he is sure of. “Not for one minute.”

“And I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

The General’s still not looking at him, and Alex isn’t sure why he’s still here. Or why he came at all, for that matter. “Of course not. Should I go?”

Washington slumps down into his chair, behind the wooden desk. It’s a heavy chair, with a winged back upholstered in green velvet. He’s looking up at Alex again, and he looks, suddenly, exhausted. Alex feels more sympathy with that ailment than with any other.

“I didn’t say that,” Washington says, mildly. “Why don’t you just sit here with me?” He removes a dark bottle of wine from some inner recess of the desk, and brandishes it in Alex’s direction before pouring a measure of it into a cut crystal glass. “I have more than enough to share,” he continues. “I admire your dedication, but you needn’t work so late every night.”

“Sir,” Alex says. He’s not sure how else to respond. What do you say? When the General compliments you. Alex hates that it comes as so much of a relief, as water to a desert-parched flower, but still, he soaks it in, hungrily. And there is this: that he’s not sure what the General’s offering. It doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing he was distracted by thinking of, earlier... but whatever it is, he can’t take it. “I still have work to do.”

Washington laughs, lowly, to himself. His eyes on Alex are warm now and a part of him wishes that he could stay.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Washington says. “Very well - you are free to go.” He waves his hand in dismissal, and Alex feels the movement it makes in the air. “I have no desire to impose myself on you. But if you will insist on working through the night, I would like you to know that you are welcome to do so here.”

Alex mutters another, “yes, sir,” another, “thank you, sir,” and makes good his escape. He can’t make heads or tails out of what Washington wants with him. It’s clearly not a French lesson. But he’ll have to decipher it. And that on top of all his other work, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love, here or at multsicorn on tumblr.


End file.
